Laugh, I Nearly Died
by psiChic
Summary: After a narrow escape from damnation the brothers attempt to return to normal, a difficult task as they struggle with mounting doubts and suspicions, forced to ask themselves how long before what's ignored makes itself painfully obvious? Sequel to Let Go.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** So here's that sequel to _Let Go_ I promised you guys! Sorry for the delay, RL likes to attack me when I'm not looking...This one is currently a WIP, so I'll just apologize in advance for further delays! Thanks as usual to my LLS for the beta, and to all you guys for your patience. I hope you enjoy. :D

I DON'T own Supernatural or Sam or Dean or anything interesting, so...yeah. lol

Just a reminder, this story is told from one POV of the brothers in each part, separate sections. Oh, and you'll probably have to read _Let Go_ first to get this one. Thanks again!

**Laugh, I Nearly Died**

_Ch. 1 After the End_

_SAM_

Sam was good at hiding. When they were younger, he'd always been able to scare his brother to death with a friendly game of hide 'n seek that got too competitive. Dean would search and search for him, but his then tiny form could fit conveniently in the most obscure of places. Sam always won, and Dean always seemed relieved when the game was over. He used to think it was because he hated to lose (which he did), but now Sam knew better.

Though they were much older now, and Sam certainly couldn't squeeze himself behind the refrigerator anymore, it wasn't to say he was out of practice. Sam had spent his whole life hiding parts of his past, present, and future from his friends, professors, even his own family. It was almost second nature to him, the lying and half truths, and it wasn't something he was particularly happy about. Then again, his personality had enough variations without the fake IDs and credit cards to prove it.

There was Sam the Pre-law student at Stanford and Sammy the Geek-Boy little brother. Sam, the man who couldn't stop the flames from consuming his girlfriend, Sam the orphan, whose mother died for him, whose father died without him. And the person he was lately, filled with twisted half-thoughts that seemed foreign, yet inarguably were his own. And then there were the times when it was hard to remember who _Sam_ was at all.

He was sitting, contemplating this latest personality development, idly wondering whether or not it was a sign of schizophrenia, when the motel room door banged open and the soaking wet form of his brother crossed the threshold.

"Is it raining?" asked Sam absently, still partially immersed in his thoughts.

"No, dude. I just felt like doing a little resistance swimming." replied Dean sarcastically, shutting the door and pulling the soggy paper bags of food out from under his coat. "We got mush and…mush on bread. Yum."

Sam gave a small smile as he stood and walked over to where Dean had thrown the bags on the table. Retrieving his burger and a bottle of water from the mini fridge, Sam moved from the table and started up the laptop.

"So I think I found something about two towns over,"

"Yeah?" said Dean, about half of his own burger already stuffed in his mouth, "'Nother demon?"

"No. It looks like a regular old angry spirit, emphasis on angry. Three people have already died, but in different locations." replied Sam, searching for the relevant articles as he spoke.

"So we salt 'n burn its ass and go off on our merry way." answered Dean as he started on his box of fries, cramming four into his mouth.

Sam didn't respond to Dean's bravado, choosing instead to continue in his explanation as though uninterrupted. "Different locations, Dean. Which means it might be multiple spirits. Who knows how many, or where they're buried."

"Details, details." smirked Dean. "So when are we blowing this popsicle stand?"

Sam attempted a small smile at his brother's ability to completely catch him off guard with his little phrases and references. If there was one thing about Dean, it was that he was never at a loss for words. Shaking his head slightly, Sam responded, "Whenever you want to. I don't really care…"

"Well we're not going tonight. I've got important business to attend to elsewhere. Tomorrow."

Sam knew that, of course, 'important business' was in actuality a 'really hot date', but he kept any comments about Dean's nighttime activities to himself. Ever since he'd made that deal, Dean had been more gung ho than ever in his chase of the fairer sex. And just because the deal was null and void now didn't mean he had to slow down any time soon. Sam didn't really mind it, as the more time Dean spent on 'business', the less chance he had of noticing the slow change in his brother's demeanor.

"That's fine."

"You sure? 'Cause we could go sooner if ya want. Chick in every port and all that."

"I said it's fine." said Sam, perhaps a little more forcefully than necessary. He was tired, and the longer he stood here talking with Dean, having these _pointless_ conversations, the more he wanted to just—_Calm down_, Sam told himself, pushing fragmented thoughts out of his mind, or at least to someplace hidden. Then, forcing a level of casualty laced with the slightest of apologies, "You go. Have fun. I'll be here and we'll leave in the morning."

Dean paused for a moment, scrutinizing his brother's features. He looked as if he was about to say something, but stopped himself and said instead, "Well, I'm gonna go get a hot shower. Feel like freakin' Frosty the Snowman."

With one last glance back at him, Dean turned and closed himself in the bathroom.

_Finally_, Sam found himself thinking when he was once again alone in the room, quickly followed by a wave of confusion as to where such a thought had come from. The relief that Dean was going to be alright, that he was saved, was quickly dissipating, leaving an increasing amount of awkward silences and failed attempts at normalcy in its wake. And for the life of him, he couldn't grasp the reason _why_.

Sam rubbed absently at the jagged scar on his back, fingers running over the marred skin as his mind did the same with the thousand plus thoughts ripping through his head.

_This isn't right._

_He's okay, you're okay, so why can't you just shut up and friggin' enjoy it?_

_Not supposed to be that way._

_How do you unflip a switch? What if I can't?_

_Doesn't care. Trust. Look at you._

_What would I have done if--?_

"Great." Sam said out loud to the empty room, mind clearing with a quick shake of his head. "Now I'm arguing with myself. And talking to myself…"

Throwing the rest of his uneaten fries into the bin beside the door, Sam moved to his duffel and grabbed some sweats to change into. The bed was lumpy and he was pretty sure there was a spring sticking out of the lower left side, but at least it was warm. Shrugging the last remnants of fractured thoughts out of his mind with a low murmur of _schizophrenia_, Sam lay down and turned off the lamp closest to him.

Finding himself unexpectedly drowsy, Sam slipped into an only slightly fitful sleep before the shower even stopped running.

* * *

_DEAN_

Finding things. Dean was good at it. He could find out what was wrong with the Impala with the briefest of inspections, find his prey on a hunt with the ease of a lion on the prowl. He'd find, examine, and put the pieces back together. Especially when it came to his little brother. It had been that way since they were kids, Sammy would need something and Dean would get it for him. He could find anything.

Ironically, the only things he had ever had _trouble_ finding were also linked to that little brother of his. It used to be Hide n' Seek, that stupid game Sam was always way too good at to be allowed. The freakin' kid was too tiny, could've fit inside the walls if he'd wanted to. Dean would never admit it to him, but those times were some of the scariest in his life. Sammy was _his_ responsibility, Dad always told him to keep an eye on him, never let him out of your sight no matter what. And there he was _allowing_ Sam to go run off and disappear. Too much stress for a kid. Man, he hated that game.

Only ever played it 'cause Sammy loved it so friggin' much.

Of course, that's just the way it was. Always had been. Dean's the older brother, and he'd do anything to keep the little one happy. Even though the 'little one' now towered over him and could probably match him pound for pound in muscle, maybe even beat him. But it didn't matter because that's just who _Dean_ was, of that he was sure.

So, as he drove his prized possession back to random dingy motel number who-the-hell-knows-anymore, he contemplated just how exactly he would do what he did best. Because there was something wrong with Sam, something missing. Something he had to find.

Ever since Sam had done…whatever it was he did to get him out of that deal, he'd been different. Little things at first, like snapping too quickly or being quieter than normal. If he was honest with himself, Sam had really started changing when Dean brought him back from the dead. But Dean was also very good at lying, and he promptly told himself it was a more recent problem.

Determined to get to the bottom of things, Dean parked the Impala, grabbed the bags of food from the Samless passenger seat, and ventured out into the pouring rain.

Dean ran to the door of their mercifully close room, and fiddled with the keys as his pretty much useless coat prevented about three percent of the rain from soaking him in entirety. Finally working the lock and praying Sam hadn't put the latch on the inside, Dean unceremoniously opened the door and rushed in to escape the elements.

There on the bed was Sam, seemingly staring intently at absolutely nothing at all, no doubt thinking thoughts Dean couldn't even begin to fathom. Or maybe he just didn't want to.

"Is it raining?" came Sam's almost dazed question, eyes not moving from whatever it was they were glued to.

Tilting his head slightly and discreetly giving Sam a quick once-over, Dean replied with a smirk, "No, dude. I just felt like doing a little resistance swimming."

He turned to shut the door, muffling the storm outside and leaving the room suddenly and oppressively silent. Feeling the need to do something, Dean rummaged through the now rain and grease covered bags he was holding. "We got mush and…mush on bread. Yum."

Dean threw the bags on the table and shrugged off his coat. He watched as Sam finally showed signs of life and moved toward the food.

"So I think I found something about two towns over," he stated, fully out of his trance now and back on the ever present laptop.

"Yeah?" interjected Dean, taking a bite out of his burger. "'Nother demon?"

"No. It looks like a regular old angry spirit, emphasis on angry. Three people have already died, but in different locations." responded Sam as he proceeded to type away at the keyboard. Dean sometimes thought he spent entirely too much time on the thing, but nobody could argue the kid's knack for research.

Starting in on his fries, Dean's mind slipped slightly into hunter mode as he processed what his brother had told him. Vengeful spirit, nothing new. The hundred or so nasties that had gotten out of hell a little over a year ago were nearly rounded up it seemed. Back to the basics then…"So we salt 'n burn it's ass and go off on our merry way."

"Different locations, Dean. Which means it might be multiple spirits. Who knows how many, or where they're buried." said Sam in exasperated tones. A familiar roll of his eyes soon followed.

"Details, details." retorted Dean with another smirk, internally grateful for the returning banter, however weak it may be. "So when are we blowing this popsicle stand?"

Sam's lips twitched in the slightest shadow of a smile as he shook his head slowly. "Whenever you want to. I don't really care…"

"Well we're not going tonight. I've got important business to attend to elsewhere. Tomorrow." said Dean. _Hehe, business_, he thought to himself, the image of a smokin' hot brunette floating across his mind. Yeah, definitely tomorrow.

"That's fine." replied Sam monotonously, not even bothering to look up again.

Something about Sam's sudden indifference rubbed Dean the wrong way, and he began instantly to reevaluate his date plans. If something was up with Sam, the girl could wait. Since when was Sam submissive in any situation? And wasn't he complaining about getting out of this dump just yesterday?

"You sure? 'Cause we could go sooner if ya want. Chick in every port and all that." tried Dean, gauging his brother for a response.

"I said it's fine." spat Sam, an unprovoked anger flashing behind his usually kind eyes. Then, "You go. Have fun. I'll be here and we'll leave in the morning." he added in an all too obviously forced tone of calm.

Dean felt a small shiver run up his spine at his brother's words, but quickly blamed it on the five gallons of water he was currently sporting on his clothes and skin. Stopping himself from making it worse with another question, Dean said instead, "Well, I'm gonna go get a hot shower. Feel like freakin' Frosty the Snowman."

Hesitating just a moment to notice the—was that _relief_?—expression on his brother's face, Dean turned to his duffel for some dry clothes and moved into the bathroom.

Something was definitely up. Sam's mood swings were little quirks in his personality, but this…this was different. Was the yellow eyed demon right about him? What really happened on those crossroads? Did he not want him around or something? _Shut up, moron. He's fine, you're fine. Just leave it alone!_ came Dean's inner dialogue, the part of him that desperately needed things to be alright again.

Leave it alone. Ignore it and it will all go away. "Sounds like a plan," said Dean aloud, turning the hot water on and removing his sopping wet clothes.

Yeah. 'Cause that always ends well.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** Sorry for the lateness again! RL is seriously attacking me, and this little story here is in cahoots with it, methinks...Anyway, Thanks to everyone who reviewed, read, added this to their faves/subscriptions and have stuck with me this long!! You guys are all AWESOME. I give you loads and loads of cookies. :-D Also to my beta, LLS, and now named PsychicWonderKitty!!

I don't own Supernatural, but OMG did you see the premiere?? Yeah, Kripke owns ME. :D

Reminder: POVs switch in this, so be ready for double the story (sorta)! lol Enjoy!!!

* * *

_Chapter Two-- Of Spirits and Demons_

_SAM_

Sam woke early the next morning to the sound of a gun cocking.

_He wants to kill you._ What was going on? Flipping over and sitting up quickly, pushing the blankets off his legs to avoid being tangled, Sam searched the room with frantic eyes. They stopped on the surprised figure sitting cross-legged on the bed next to him.

"What are you doing?" Sam asked hastily, shifting minutely farther away from the edge of the bed and eyeing the gun warily. _Has a gun. Shoot you. Different._

"Uh…cleaning?" answered Dean slowly, putting the shotgun on the bed with the rest of the weapons. "Sam?"

Sam stared at his brother for a moment, gathering his thoughts and catching his breath. Upon closer inspection, the scene before him was nothing out of the ordinary for a Winchester in the days before a hunt. Various weapons laid out on an old towel that had been in the Impala's trunk since before Sam could remember, cleaning rags and tools lined up for use in Dean's skilled hands. The shotgun Sam had heard wasn't even loaded. 'Was I imagining it?' thought Sam, trying to recall the event that had passed only moments ago, finding he couldn't differentiate between dream and reality.

"Hello? Earth to Geek Boy." prodded Dean, the shadow of concern behind his green eyes.

"Oh…uh…yeah. Sorry. I thought—you—I had a weird dream." stuttered Sam, standing up and moving toward the bathroom for a cup of water. _Throat's so dry…_Upon his return, Dean had started packing up the cleaning supplies and was throwing Sam the patented 'big brother look'. _He knows._

Not wanting to go down the inevitable path of endless questioning, Sam gave a small throat-clearing cough and changed the subject. "What are you doing up so early? I thought you had a date last night."

"Nope. Canceled. Said she had ta' go to the doctor or somethin'." responded Dean, eyes not quite meeting Sam's. _Lying to you. _So Dean had stayed in last night after all, even after Sam had told him he was fine with him going out. 'Probably thinks I'm sick or something.' thought Sam, the image of Dean keeping a vigil next to his still form floating across his slightly muddled mind.

"Right," said Sam with another shake of his head, then he added, smiling, "The doctor? Probably a good thing you didn't see her last night then. Don't wanna go through what we did back at that free clinic in Seattle."

"Hey!" cried Dean with mock offense, "That was for supplies and you know it."

"Uh-huh. And it took you three hours, a shot to the ass, and a complimentary pamphlet on safe sex practices to steal some bandages?" quipped Sam with a smirk all his own. The art of distraction was one mastered early in the Winchester house.

"How the hell would you know if I had a shot to the ass?" asked Dean indignantly.

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe 'cause you spent the whole trip to Utah sitting on an ice pack?" answered Sam, now starting to laugh openly at the memory of a very uncomfortable Dean in the driver's seat.

"I was—Shut up." said Dean lamely, turning away from his brother with an embarrassed huff. "You find out who our mystery spirit is yet?"

"Which one?" asked Sam, allowing the subject change but finding great amusement in the redness that had creeped into Dean's cheeks.

"Any of them. Gotta start somewhere, dude."

"Uh…Michael Sturges. Local gardener and part-time groundskeeper for the county Court House. Fits the MO, what with the lawn shears being used as shish kabobs. Died in a fire in '93."

"Anything else? Where he's buried or how the fire started?" asked Dean as he piled the last of the now clean weapons into the duffel on the bed.

"Not yet." replied Sam, running his hands through the hair on the back of his head. Truth was, he hadn't even thought about the case since his lunchtime obit-scanning yesterday. Sam vaguely recalled sitting on the end of his bed for hours before Dean came back to the room…

"Well, why not? You usually have the thing half figured out by the time we get to the next motel." said Dean, then with a smirk, "How about you do a little less standing around and a little more research, there, Sparky."

"How about you do a little less _lying_ around and do it yourself, Man-Whore?" retorted Sam with slightly more force than he'd intended. Thankfully, Dean didn't seem to notice, or at least he didn't show it.

"Hehe…Funny." said Dean with waggling eyebrows for effect. "Bitch."

"Thanks, Jerk."

"Alright. Well, I need coffee and you need some quality time with the laptop, so I'll be back in about an hour or two. M'kay?" asked Dean, already half out the door anyway.

"Yeah, whatever." Sam waved him off as the door closed and he was left in silence. Again that strange feeling of relief washed over him. It was really quite disturbing. Sam decided against contemplating this fact as he walked to the laptop and started it up.

----------------------

Ah, research. A different kind of hunt, the pursuit of knowledge, answers to all the world's burning questions. And Sam's only pastime. Sure, he could go out to bars with Dean and pick up some chick half the town's already had the 'pleasure' of knowing instead of sitting here on the motel floor searching ceaselessly for every personal detail of some dead guy's life. But really now, where's the fun in that? Besides, it's not like Dean would do it…

_Why_ Sam was sitting on this most likely disease-ridden floor of the motel room was another story though. He hadn't planned on sitting there. Hadn't woken up this morning with an undeniable desire to get friendly with the cockroaches. But nonetheless, there he was. Laptop in hand and in all his glory, the six-foot-four form crumpled up against the wall nearest the door. How did this happen? Well…Sam wasn't quite sure.

He couldn't remember falling. For that matter, he could hardly remember what he had been doing at all before the loss of altitude. Flashes of weapons and fragments of conversations ran through his mind in a jumbled mess. All he knew was that his head pounded fiercely every time he attempted to stand and the only thing he could reach was the laptop. He'd thought about calling Dean -- _Yeah. 'Hey Dean. Could you come back now? I've fallen and I can't get up!' Perfect…_-- more than once in the last hour ('How long have I been like this?'), but decided against it. It would be bad enough when he came in and saw what had become of his poor little brother this time without the added humiliation of asking for help.

"Just have to stop the room from spinning," Sam said aloud, abandoning his valiant attempt at being productive and returning once again to the task of becoming vertical. "We don't really need any more on the guy. Died horrible death. Out for revenge. Simple."

"And now you sound like Dean."

Another push on his legs sent his head reeling, the pressure in his skull building too fast until his legs gave way and he crashed back to the ground, nearly crushing the laptop in the process.

"What the hell?!" Sam exclaimed, pressing his head between his hands in an attempt to soothe the powerful ache that seemed to worsen with every heartbeat. "Let's not try that again…"

"No talking either." he added as the sound of the air conditioner whirring in the corner suddenly became loud enough to make Sam's ears bleed. _Turn that freakin' thing off!_

TURN IT OFF TURN IT OFF TURN IT OFF—his thoughts echoed around the room, gaining volume with every repetition, rebounding on his head, slamming it against the wall. An endless ringing. They pressed in on him. Smothering. He couldn't breathe. Couldn't see. The sound was deafening, his words solidifying, gathering to make a club, a mallet, a spear. Piercing his temple and forcing his throat closed in unison.

The sound, the silence. The light, the darkness.

Sam.

* * *

_DEAN_

Dean had slept all of four hours last night.

After his much needed shower, he was surprised to find Sam already sound asleep, fully dressed and hardly moving. Something about the way he had spoken to him, the distant look in his eyes, haunted Dean and bothered him to no end. Sleep wasn't really working out for him, as every time he closed his eyes he got the feeling Sam wouldn't be there when he opened them. So he had flipped around the channels on the muted TV and spent a good amount of time simply watching his brother breathe.

At 5:00 A.M., Dean decided the guns needed cleaning.

He was halfway through the barrel of the shotgun when a sudden movement from the bed opposite him stopped him in mid-wipe. Sam had woken up abruptly, shot into a sitting position and was now frenetically searching the room as if he'd just been attacked.

_What the f—_

"What are you doing?" came Sam's accusatory voice, hazel eyes not moving from the weapon in Dean's hands, fear etched plainly all over his young face.

"Uh…cleaning?" Dean answered dumbly, cautiously placing the gun back on the bed. What the hell was wrong with Sam? And was he imagining it, or was the familiar glint of recognition missing from his little brother's nervous gaze? Noticing the slight retreat toward the other side of his bed, Dean added slowly, "Sam?"

Sam didn't answer. _At least he stopped looking at me like that, _thought Dean, relieved that he had also stopped backing away and that the fear was rapidly being replaced with a look of troubled confusion. Well, not _relieved_, but he felt better about it anyway. The thought of Sam not knowing who he was was one that scared the crap outta him. It also hurt like hell.

Still receiving no response, Dean added, "Hello? Earth to Geek Boy."

"Oh...uh…yeah. Sorry. I thought—you—I had a weird dream." stammered Sam as he got up and headed for the bathroom. He came back with a glass of water and a groggy yet puzzled look on his face. Dean's big brother senses heightened as he looked his sibling over. He looked like shit on a dead dog.

Sam, noticing Dean's watchful gaze, cleared his throat and asked conversationally, "What are you doing up so early? I thought you had a date last night."

"Nope. Canceled. Said she had ta' go to the doctor or somethin'." He was lying, of course. The brunette had no doctor's appointment, at least none he knew of. The fact of the matter was, there was no way Dean was going to leave Sam alone like that. It's not like he was sick…or maybe he was. But it didn't matter; something was wrong with him and Dean felt like he should be there. He wouldn't leave Sam alone again until he got out of his funk.

Dean was about to bring up said problem when Sam shook his head and said, "Right." An unbelieving smile dared to spread across his face, dimples almost making an appearance as he added, "The doctor? Probably a good thing you didn't see her last night then. Don't wanna go through what we did back at that free clinic in Seattle."

"Hey!" exclaimed Dean, surprised and a little peeved at his brother's sudden change of subject. "That was for supplies and you know it."

"Uh-huh. And it took you three hours, a shot to the ass, and a complimentary pamphlet on safe sex practices to steal some bandages?" shot back Sam with a smirk that would have made Dean proud. _Would have_, if he hadn't just brought up one of the most humiliating experiences in Dean's life.

"How the hell would you know if I had a shot to the ass?" asked Dean, conveniently ignoring the other parts of Sam's accusation. _Knew I shoulda' thrown the pamphlet out before I got back in the car._

Sam actually started to laugh, dimples in full effect, for the first time in weeks. He couldn't keep a straight face as he answered, "Oh, I don't know. Maybe 'cause you spent the whole trip to Utah sitting on an ice pack?"

Dean remembered that trip. He remembered the shot too. _Damn_, that hurt. Way too much for a simple prick in the ass. Stupid doctor, probably never even seen a case of—nothing. He had nothing. He was going for _supplies_. And why the hell did Sam even remember that? It was years ago…friggin' elephant.

"I was—Shut up." came Dean's brilliant retort. He'd never admit defeat in a verbal sparring match, especially one so embarrassingly won by the little brother, so he settled for a subject change instead. "You find out who our mystery spirit is yet?"

"Not yet."

"Well, why not? You usually have the thing half figured out by the time we get to the next motel." said Dean, taking note of this odd occurrence but not wanting to break the conversation just yet. "How about you do a little less standing around and a little more research, there, Sparky." he added in jest.

"How about you do a little less _lying_ around and do it yourself, Man-Whore?" rejoined Sam, that edge back in his voice and seeming strikingly out of place to Dean. But instead of dwelling on the strange behavior of his little brother, Dean focused on what was actually said. _Man-Whore?_

"Hehe…Funny." allowed Dean. The kid was creative, he'd give him that. "Bitch."

"Thanks, Jerk." came Sam's predictable reply.

The banter drawing to a satisfactory close, Dean picked up the refilled weapons duffel and headed for the door. "Alright. Well, I need coffee and you need some quality time with the laptop, so I'll be back in about an hour or two. M'kay?"

Dean moved out of the room and closed the door as a slightly muffled "Yeah, whatever." was heard from within. Smiling to himself, Dean threw the bag into the Impala's trunk and started up the engine.

----------------------

Ah, coffee. The world's greatest invention, right after cars and women that is. Oh yeah, and cheeseburgers. In any case, Dean loved it. It had the perfect combination of bitter and satisfying, the flawless teamwork of ground and water. Two components strongest when left with nothing but each other. Sam might say it was better with cream and/or sugar, which added their own respective 'strengths' to the flavor, but they both agreed that it didn't really need anything else to get the job done.

As Dean sat in the corner diner contemplating the wonder of the beverage before him, he found himself unable to move. Or, to put it more plainly, he was _afraid_ of going back to the motel. See, he and Sam had been having problems lately. Not the kind of problems that explode in a burst of prank wars and loud arguments, but the ones that fester in silence until someone snaps and irrevocable damage occurs. Or nobody does and the problem simply never goes away, is never resolved.

What made it difficult was that Dean wasn't even sure what the problem _was_. Instead of everything going back to normal after the deal was broken and both brothers emerged unscathed, things seemed to have gotten worse. Well, neither of them was set to go to Hell any time soon, but at least before they could speak to each other. Now it was all awkward silences and paranoid suspicions.

Yes, he was afraid to go back to the motel. That exchange he'd just had with Sam was a rarity nowadays, and Dean didn't want to go back to a silent room and an absent brother. So here he sat in his booth, drinking the once-magnificent coffee that by now was just as cold as their relationship as of late.

"Can I get you anything else, Sugar?" asked a generously proportioned waitress, notepad out and ballpoint pen at the ready.

"Uh…" answered Dean, having been slightly startled out of his thoughts by the sudden appearance of the waitress. "No thanks, I'm good."

"Really? Is that why you're sitting here all alone, staring into your coffee like it's your long-lost brother?" she replied with a knowing look.

"What?" said Dean incredulously, looking into the waitress's eyes with something akin to surprise.

"Well…what's her name?" came her response, voice taking on a motherly tone.

Dean let out a breath of air in the form of a light chuckle. "He. My brother."

"Oh, so it _is_ a family thing. I was right." she said with a smile. Then, "What? You two havin' a fight or somethin'?"

"Something like that." answered Dean, abruptly feeling that he should be back in that motel room. _Now_.

"Well, call him then, Sweetie. If he looks half as worn out as you do he'll be needin' ya right about now."

"Yeah. Thanks." said Dean hastily, tossing a couple bills on the table and heading for the Impala. The sound of "You and your brother stop by again soon now, ya hear?" was partially drowned out by the bell ringing on the door as Dean practically ran out of the diner.

Simultaneously dialing Sam's number and starting up the Impala, Dean's newfound fear of confrontation vanished. Something was up; he didn't know how he knew, and he didn't really care. He just had to get to Sam. With the fourth unanswered ring of Sam's cell phone, Dean's foot pushed harder on the gas, willing his baby onward.

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Hey guys! Remember me? sigh I know. This is waaaaay late. I don't blame you if you don't remember this story anymore, or don't care! But, just read the first two chapters and then this one and tomorrow chapter four (I promise!) and it'll be okay (hopefully). :D Reminder, This is Dean POV in one part, Sam POV in the other, and it's the sequel to Let Go.

PS, This story has been totally revamped (part of the long wait) and I hope it'll go smoothly now and much better!! YAY:-D Enjoy.

I don't own Supernatural, I just write about it sometimes:-D

* * *

_Chapter Three- Identity Crisis _

_DEAN_

As the shabby front office of the motel came into view, Dean slowed the Impala fractionally and pulled into a parking spot, simultaneously killing the engine and shoving his cell back in his pocket. Sam hadn't answered. Scenarios were coursing their way through Dean's mind at lightning speed, each worse than the last, when he finally made it the twenty or so steps to their room's door.

Trying the handle, and finding it mercifully unlocked, Dean called out, "Sam?!"

No answer.

Dean moved into the room, eyes combing the interior, searching for the familiar form of his little brother.

Nothing. The room appeared to be empty. The low hum of the air conditioner in the corner was the only sound, seeming oddly loud in the oppressive silence. Dean pulled the .45 from the waistband of his jeans. _Just in case._

"Sam?" Dean called again, worry increasing with his confusion. _Where the hell is he? What the _hell_ is going on?_

"Hey, Dean."

The voice was low and soft, but it startled Dean enough to make him jump, spinning around fast in alarm, weapon raised and aimed right between a set of calm hazel eyes. _Holy crap!_

"Dude, what the hell? Don't do that! How many times do I have to tell you to answer me when I call you, huh?" fumed Dean, surprised anger already melting into relief as he lowered the gun. _He's fine. You're just paranoid…Stupid._

"Sorry." replied Sam unconvincingly, looking at the piece in Dean's hands rather than meeting his eyes.

"Why didn't you answer me?" demanded Dean.

"Didn't hear you."

"I called your cell three times." pressed Dean, anger flaring again at Sam's complete lack of concern regarding his obvious worry. He lifted the phone from the table, showing Sam the missed calls displayed on the screen.

"You did?" asked Sam vacantly, glancing toward the door, the laptop (_Why is it on the floor?)_, and back at Dean. He made no further explanation as he walked past his brother and gathered up the laptop and duffels, disappearing out the door before Dean could inquire anymore.

"Yeah, I did actually." answered Dean angrily. He followed Sam out of the room, stopping at the Impala's trunk and watching him throw the bags in over the hidden weapons cache. Reaching out and grabbing hold of Sam's shoulder, Dean decided on a different approach. Direct questioning obviously wasn't working.

"Sammy, is there something you wanna tell me? I mean, you feeling okay?" tried Dean, attempting to read his brother's usually expressive eyes. All he saw were two orbs staring blankly back into his own. A coldness crept into Dean, one he hadn't felt in a long time. Not since…

"Christo." Dean murmured, afraid of the reaction but needing to be sure.

Confusion played across Sam's face as he slowly blinked. Not black eyes, but hazel ones. Caught off guard and hurt. _Damn it, _thought Dean, cursing himself for jumping to that horrible conclusion, watching his brother's wounded expression, instantly regretting opening his mouth at all. _Way to go, dumbass._

"You think I'm possessed?" asked Sam. His was voice full of betrayal, of _Dean's_ betrayal. "Can't you even recognize your own brother?"

And there it was. The million-dollar question. All the marbles were riding on this one, as Dean stood there, considering. The obvious answer was "Yes." , throw in a "Sorry, I'm an ass." and the thing might blow over with minimal feelings left out raw and exposed. But…_Can I? He's been so distant lately, cold, even. Different._ Dean couldn't ignore the feeling of _disappointment_ that flared within him at his brother's non-reaction. A demon he could deal with. This… Not for the first time, the Yellow-Eyed Demon's taunts flitted across Dean's mind. _How certain are you?_

"Sam…" Dean started, still not sure what to say, but knowing every second that passed meant another brick in the wall separating him from the only family he had left. Closing him off from Sam. Blocking his lifeline. "Of course I can. It's just—lately—you've…I don't know, man. Sorry." added Dean lamely, wanting desperately to drop the subject and go back to a few hours ago, joking about old times. Or to a few years ago, when Sam was still Sammy and things weren't so hard…

"Whatever." said Sam, voice once again emotionless; eyes guarded and unfathomable. "If you're finished up here, I found out where Sturgis is buried."

"What? Oh…right. Yeah." Dean cleared his throat. "Where to?"

Sam's nearly monotonous directions to the cemetery left an uneasy feeling in the pit of Dean's stomach, bothered him almost as much as their latest exchange did. _Almost_. Nevertheless, he drove where Sam told him, turned when Sam said to turn, followed the map clutched in his brother's powerful hands. Dean was done trying to be the leader. Or rather, he couldn't tell if they were even on the same path anymore, let alone the right one.

**oooOOOooo**

_SAM _

_A gorgeous, nicely furnished house stretched before him. He could hear them in the kitchen, laughing. One voice he recognized--his brother. Pushing the door open slowly, satisfied with his stealth as the two backs remained turned, Sam crept forward, the fire in his veins threatening to consume them all._

The dull ache brought him to consciousness, some ten feet from where he had last remembered laying. Sounds were nonexistent now, it was as though the world that so recently had been assaulting his ears was suddenly turned to mute. Sam rose slowly, testing his balance and trying to recognize his surroundings. 'Motel room. Door…over there. Wasn't I…?'

Then it clicked, or, rather, the realization of his location and what he had been doing flooded his memory. For the most part. Sam knew he had been talking with someone, laughing about…something. Then he was on the laptop, researching the spirit of an old gardener for the next hunt. _New Haven Cemetery_. The image of a map presented itself in his mind. The next part was a little fuzzy still, he somewhat remembered the pain that had accompanied his time on the floor, though he couldn't ascertain why he was in that position at all, couldn't recall falling or being pushed…'Who would push you? You're alone.'

Sam looked around the room at this point, eyes flashing from corner to corner, sweeping the walls, searching for some hidden attacker standing in the shadows. _Dean._

But there was nothing, no one. A whole other barrage of questions now filled his mind upon the mention of his brother, though. _He did this. Doesn't want you to…Lies. _

"Where is he?" Sam asked the empty room, part of him needing to see his big brother very much, the other fearing another attack. Sam walked around the room, debating what to do while half-heartedly searching for his cell phone. As he passed the one window, a strangely appealing idea formed inside his mind. _Open it._ A low rumble of a car outside spurred Sam into action, wrenching the window open. _Go. NOW._ Sam obeyed, sliding his left leg over the sill first, then his head and torso. His right leg was out and the window pushed shut as the room's door flew open. Sam didn't register the name being called.

Once he was outside and had cleared the window, Sam found himself again at a loss for what to do. 'Where am I even going?' thought Sam, feeling very foolish and more than a little confused. Skirting around the side of the motel, Sam ended up once again facing the open doorway of his room, this time from the outside, watching a man's frantic search of the interior.

It took a moment, far longer than it should have, for the man's name to push itself to the surface of Sam's thoughts. Walking forward slowly, cautiously, Sam acknowledged his brother. "Hey Dean."

His reaction was, well, downright terrified. Dean spun around, the grip on his .45 visibly tightening as he raised it in one lightning-fast motion to rest, pointing dead center between Sam's eyes. Sam, however, didn't flinch. He'd been expecting something like this. _See?_

"Dude, what the hell? Don't do that! How many times do I have to tell you to answer me when I call you, huh?" yelled Dean, anger apparent, though he lowered the gun immediately.

Sam's eyes followed the gun's progress back to Dean's side. _Waiting._ He could feel Dean's stare boring into him and decided a placating "Sorry." was in order.

It didn't seem to help. "Why didn't you answer me?" Dean was upset, that much was obvious. Sam couldn't really grasp why though, quickly combing over the last few minutes to find the reason.

"Didn't hear you." replied Sam, keeping his features calm in case he frightened Dean again. Something was definitely up. _Be careful._

"I called your cell three times." stated Dean indignantly, reaching for the table and picking it up, showing Sam.

_Was that always there?_ The hairs on the back of Sam's neck started to stand up as he got that feeling he was being watched. Looking to the door to be sure the easiest exit was clear, Sam began moving around he room, gathering their belongings while distantly adding, "You did?" response to Dean's statement.

Sam was out the door and walking toward the familiar gleam of the Impala as his brother's answer of "Yeah, I did actually." was heard from somewhere behind him.

The fresh air outside flooded Sam's nostrils, producing a clearing effect throughout his senses and mind. He suddenly realized just where he was, and the nature of his latest brotherly interaction. Feeling quite stupid and a little guilty about his nonchalance with Dean, Sam rose from his stoop over the deep trunk and turned to face his brother. He was about to voice his apology when Dean grabbed his arm.

"Sammy, is there something you wanna tell me? I mean, you feeling okay?" asked Dean almost timidly, eyeing him carefully with worry in his tone. 'That's a good question' thought Sam, not knowing how to answer. The events of the past few days…weeks…_months_ were just as baffling to Sam as they appeared to be to Dean. 'What is wrong with me? One minute I'm having a perfectly normal conversation, next I'm staring into space for hours at time…Feeling depressed, angry…even now, I was fine a few seconds ago, but I can feel it rising…sometimes I just wanna—' Sam's self-directed musings were cut off abruptly with a word, muttered half ashamed, half in fear, from the man standing opposite him.

"Christo."

'Ouch.' thought Sam immediately, confusion running rampant and he once again went over his past actions, searching for a reason his brother would be saying these things to him. _Careful now. Stay calm. He doesn't know you know._ 'How could he think that? He's my brother…' _Different. Alone. He doesn't know you. See? Can't be trusted. Remember what he did. Leave it alone if you stay calm… _

Sam's subconscious still swirled with the conflicting thoughts as he asked in disbelief, "You think I'm possessed?" Not giving Dean a chance to answer, for he already knew that one, Sam added, "Can't you even recognize your own brother?" _Stop. Leave it. Him. Hunt._

"Sam…" Dean's voice, full of regret and a tinge of self-loathing regained Sam's attention. "Of course I can. It's just—lately—you've…I don't know, man. Sorry." Some part of Sam recognized the guilt and genuine concern in his brother's eyes, but at the moment he was feeling rather uncaring, a new urge to get back to work flaring within him. _New Haven Cemetery._

"Whatever." came Sam's would-be response, betraying none of the conflict that had just overtaken his mind, lending no clue as to what was in his thoughts. "If you're finished up here, I found out where Sturgis is buried."

A little surprised, Dean stuttered, "What? Oh…right. Yeah." Giving a small cough and a shake of the head, Dean seemed to let it go, the subject effectively dropped. Go back to pretending everything is fine. They had a job to do after all. "Where to?"

Sam rattled off the directions to a silent Dean, his mouth forming words strung together unconsciously. Sam's thoughts were elsewhere. He felt like he was in the dark, a tunnel of sorts. Vaguely aware of the sun shining outside his window and the voice filling the car, Sam wondered who was in control. 'I'm not possessed—I would know.' Of that he was certain, but then…what? It was familiar and foreign at the same time, like a shadow of himself was calling the shots, or rather, multiple shadows, all merging and congealing, fighting for control yet working in unison. The final turn of the Impala's wheel brought him out of his reverie, eyes drawn to a large stone mausoleum.

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Here it is! Chapter 4 as promised!! I'm seriously sorry about the delays in this story, and I'm infinitely grateful to all who've stuck with it this long. Readers, Reviewers, Subscribers, you guys rock!! As does my lovely LLS, the best beta ever:D Hope you guys enjoy this one!!

Side Note: There are some references to another of my obsessions in here...look at the names...I'll give you a hint. It starts with a "T" and ends with a "wilight". ;-)

Supernatural? Not mine. If I was one of their writers, I'd be striking...;) (Oh, BTW, did you guys see that thing about SN songs for sale on iTunes--which I also don't own--with all proceeds going to support the WGA writers? Go! Buy! LOL)

Enough of my babbling...this story has waited long enough. :-)

* * *

_Chapter Four—Reactions _

_DEAN_

"What's the name again?" asked Dean, pocketing his keys and walking around the front of the Impala to stand next to Sam. Sam, who continued to stare intently at the stone structure in front of him unblinking.

"Hey! Sam." Dean snapped his fingers. "Wanna share with the class, there? What're you looking at?" _These little trances of yours are gettin' old, Sammy._ Dean's big brother radar once again went off in his head. He held back a sigh.

"That's it." Sam pointed to the mausoleum marked 'Cullen'. He then proceeded to walk toward it, leaving Dean alone by the car. Again.

"Dude, that says 'Cullen'." said Dean, quite unnecessarily but exasperated all the same. "You said Mr. Stabby's name was Sturdy."

"Sturgis." Sam corrected, turning around fast with eyes flashing. "He's the killer. These," he pointed, "are the _victims_." The last word had a strange inflection on it, almost like a scoff, as if Sam thought they deserved their fate. _Okay, touchy today…_thought Dean, making a mental note to lay off on the big brother antics. Or increase them. He hadn't decided yet.

"Wait. Victims? I thought you said he died in a fire." Dean was once again nonplussed by his brother's train of thought. _Way to let the hunting party in on the secrets there, Sammy Boy._

The expected eye roll absent, Sam responded, "He did. Along with his brother and Elizabeth Cullen. Anymore questions?" _Great. Two more graves to dig up._

"Okay, okay. You get the chain cutters?" asked Dean, eyeing the metal links barring their entrance to the crypt.

Apparently, he had, for Sam had already effortlessly lopped the chain in half before Dean could finish his sentence. He stepped inside, flashlight on and scanning the walls.

"I'll take that as a yes." Dean announced to the graveyard; he was pretty sure Sam was too absorbed to have heard. Or to care, but that wasn't new.

Dean followed his little brother into the mausoleum, taking out his own flashlight and taking in his surroundings, eyes adjusting to the dim. Thirty years of dust and cobwebs covered the walls and plaques marking each respective family member's resting place. The door, too, judging by the silky webs clinging to Sam's mop of hair. The light of their flashlights caught a strand or two every once in a while, reflecting tiny shooting stars against his dark brown. Dean imagined what insects might have been living there, that now inhabited his younger brother's hair, that would be crawling all over his bed tonight, wherever that may be, burrowing into the sheets and spreading around the room. Into Dean's things too. "You wash your hair before you go to sleep tonight."

"What? Why?" asked Sam, hand flying to his head as if Dean had told him there was a gnome braiding his long locks. Dean smiled.

"Bugs."

"Bugs?" repeated Sam, shining his flashlight purposefully in Dean's eyes, one hand still lost in the unruly mop that was his hair. "I don't have bugs, Dean."

"If you say so." allowed Dean, raising his hand to shield the light, faking annoyance to get a rise out of his brother. "Dude. Eyes. How am I supposed to tell you when there's a spider crawling across your face if I can't see?" _Let him have the temporary blindness, I get the satisfaction of seeing OCD boy squirm._

"Shut up." Sam's attempt at not sounding disturbed by the thought of eight big, black, hairy legs scurrying across his clean, bare skin failing miserably. Dean smiled again. _That's my freak. _

"Alright, Princess. So which one of these lucky guys is ours?"

"Elizabeth Cullen." answered Sam, voice suddenly quiet, hushed. He then reached out to stroke, almost lovingly, the plaque marking the woman's position among her family. "She was burnt beyond recognition. They didn't have to do much to cremate her."

"Cremated? She was _cremated_, Sam?" asked Dean incredulously. "And you knew this already?"

"Yes."

"Were you planning on telling me this? I mean, what are we even doing here if she's already ash? Can't salt 'n _re_-burn, Sam." Dean was about to turn and walk out, aggravation evident in the huff he gave, when Sam's muscular arms suddenly had him pinned to the wall opposite the plaque he'd been fixated on moments before. Dean dropped his flashlight, heard the _pop_ of the bulb breaking, plunging them both into darkness.

"What the hell?" exclaimed Dean, staring blindly at where he imagined Sam's face must be. "Dude, what's your problem?" Sam wasn't normally violent; yeah he could kick ass better than anyone he knew (except maybe him and Dad) but he'd never reacted this way to anything Dean said. _What did I even say?_ thought Dean, thoroughly confused as he waited for his brother to release him.

"She was a person, Dean. Have some respect." Sam answered roughly, shoving Dean quick and hard into the wall before letting go, turning and exiting into the sunlight without another word.

The sound of his own head cracking against the cold stone seemed even louder than normal, and more painful, as it echoed around the empty crypt and his skull alike. Slightly dazed, Dean walked into the sunlight and searched among the graves for his brother. _Seriously gonna kick his ass._ He found him quickly, towering over the markers, back turned and as motionless as the stones surrounding him.

Dean walked toward his brother, about to return the favor, when he noticed Sam's expression. Horrified.

"Sam?" he reached out to him, all traces of anger gone and the pain on the back of his head forgotten. "Sam, what is it?"

Slowly, Sam's eyes slid to Dean's. He held the gaze for a few seconds, unspeaking, before he said slowly, "Sorry."

"It's fine." Dean answered instantly, then, "What's up with you, Sam? Huh?"

"Nothing. Just a headache." responded Sam, then seemingly reading Dean's mind, "Not that kind of headache."

He had immediately thought of the visions that had plagued Sam before, well, a lifetime ago, it seemed. Nothing like that had happened since old Yellow Eyes bit it, and for that Dean was immeasurably grateful, but then again…visions he could deal with. This—he didn't even know what _this_ was. "You sure you're okay? 'Cause uh, I'm gonna have to cut off your Wheaties supply if you keep this up." Dean pointed at his head, wincing while trying to lighten the mood.

Sam looked at him for a moment, seemed to be considering something, head cocked slightly to the side. "Yeah, sorry again." He answered with a small smile, guilt evident in his eyes. Whatever it was seemed to have passed though as he cleared his throat and added, "So it's witness time?"

"I guess so, since this was, well…Yeah. Who's our first witness?" inquired Dean as he started to walk back to the car. He didn't want to say something to make Sam go off again, since whatever reason he had for coming here was obviously a sensitive one.

"Caroline Peters. Former neighbor of the Cullens and journalist for the local paper. She was a teenager at the time of the fire, got her first break writing about that night." he supplied. Sam matched Dean's steps to the trunk of the car before crossing behind him to get to the passenger side.

"Good for her." Dean joked, starting the car and pushing any brotherly worries away to focus on the hunt at hand. Sam seemed fine now…

**oooOOOooo**

_SAM_

He distantly heard the engine being killed as he moved from the car in one fluid motion. The stone structure was of medium build, sturdy and covered in moss on one side. The inscription read 'Cullen', and as Sam's eyes slid over the letters a jolt of excitement ran through him. _There it is._

Dean was standing somewhere to his left, saying something unheard and inconsequential, but Sam was captivated by the crypt before him. A whole family rested within its depths, together for eternity, just as it was meant to be. It wasn't the first mausoleum he had seen and it certainly wouldn't be the last, but something about this one caught his attention. Sam didn't quite know why that was, knew he should be focusing on his brother, _Traitor_, but still his gaze remained fixed on the cold stone. That is, until a hand appeared in front of his face, blocking his view and seemingly breaking the spell with a _snap_.

"Wanna share with the class, there? What're you looking at?" Dean was saying, annoyed with him once again.

Pointing as an answer, Sam replied, "That's it." _Go_. _Leave him_. He walked toward the doors, chain cutters in hand, hearing his brother follow in his wake.

"Dude, that says 'Cullen'." said Dean to his back, presumably staring at the name that had drawn Sam's attention moments before. _He must be some kind of genius._ "You said Mr. Stabby's name was Sturdy."

A strange anger flared up within Sam at the sound of Dean's voice, flashes of a bloodied knife came before his eyes, as he spun around to face him. Despite the disturbing images in his mind, Sam answered calmly, "Sturgis. He's the killer. These," Sam pointed back to the crypt, "are the _victims_." As if every one of them didn't deserve the metal plunging into them, the fire burning their flesh. Sam knew the story well, he'd finally made headway with his research it seemed. Michael Sturgis and his wife, Beth, were a happy couple. Going to have a baby. But it seemed that would never be, for one night in October Michael's whole world fell apart. As he came home from work that night, later than normal due to an overgrown landscape three hours away, he heard his wife speaking with a man, the voice familiar. His brother. Their conversation was not friendly though, or actually, it was _too_ friendly. Anger took hold of him as he burst in to see them enclosed in an embrace, the garden shears in his hands moving like lightning as he plunged them into his wife, his love. Roger, his brother, screamed in horror and knocked a candle over behind him; soon the room, the house, was in flames, killing the three of them.

"Wait. Victims? I thought you said he died in a fire." asked Dean, taking Sam from his thoughts and displaying his confusion again. Sam hadn't shared any of his findings with him. 'Serves him right.' thought Sam, 'Never does any of the research himself anyway.'

"He did. Along with his brother and Elizabeth Cullen. Anymore questions?" answered Sam stonily. He didn't hear what Dean said next, for he was already busy cutting the chains preventing their entrance into the tomb. He left the cutters outside as he flicked his flashlight on, walking through the threshold and examining the interior. There were about twenty or so plaques lining the walls, each marking the place of one of the Cullens. Searching for the name he knew, Sam felt Dean's eyes watching him. _Careful. Too close._ Sam was used to his brother watching him; he'd done it since they were little, probably since the fire and his Mom. He didn't know why it bothered him this time. 'Weird.' thought Sam with a shake of his head, just as Dean, speak of the devil, piped up behind him.

"You wash your hair before you go to sleep tonight."

'That was random.' Sam turned to face his brother. "What? Why?"

"Bugs." he answered, smirking.

Sam shined his light into Dean's eyes; the habits of little brothers die hard. "Bugs? I don't have bugs, Dean." he said with confidence.

"If you say so." said Dean, obviously not believing a word Sam said. He brought his hand up to his eyes and Sam was about to lower his flashlight when Dean added, "Dude. Eyes. How am I supposed to tell you when there's a spider crawling across your face if I can't see?"

'Jerk.' thought Sam, suppressing a shudder at the thought of hundreds of tiny insects making their way across his face tonight. "Shut up." Dean was smirking again.

"Alright, Princess. So which one of these lucky guys is ours?" Dean's gesture toward the plaques brought Sam's attention back to his current position. _On the left._ Sam turned and saw it there, the place marked 'Elizabeth Cullen'. He reached out to touch the carved letters of her name, thinking of the pain this woman must have caused. Still, she was the victim. Roger Sturgis was the one who betrayed his own brother.

"Elizabeth Cullen. She was burnt beyond recognition. They didn't have to do much to cremate her."

Dean stared at him in annoyed disbelief. "Cremated? She was _cremated_, Sam? And you knew this already?"

"Yes." replied Sam simply.

"Were you planning on telling me this? I mean, what are we even doing here if she's already ash? Can't salt 'n _re_-burn, Sam." responded Dean with a huff. The effect on Sam was a surprising one though; the rage had returned. He was tired of Dean putting down his research skills, his worth on the hunt. Belittling him. Proving just how useful he could be, how _dangerous_, Sam grabbed hold of Dean's jacket and slammed him into the wall opposite Elizabeth's grave. He felt Dean slump for a fraction of a second under his hold before he tensed. Slightly out of breath, Dean demanded, "What the hell? Dude, what's your problem?"

Sam could feel his brother's pulse racing, for anger, for _fear_. Glaring into the darkness, Sam responded with a partial excuse. "She was a person, Dean. Have some respect." He gave a final shove, smacking Dean's head into the solid stone before releasing him and walking out into the sunlight.

He'd made it about halfway to the car when it happened. Like a vision, but devoid of pain, Sam's line of sight swam and flashed, changing to a house. Dean was there in front of him with a blonde woman, one he didn't recognize, lying on the floor, covered in blood. Triumph coursed its way through his body as he lunged at his brother—

"Sam?" A hand met his shoulder. "Sam, what is it?" Dean had appeared out of nowhere, an action that used to be comforting. Now, considering what he had just seen, Sam was terrified.

He forced himself to look at his brother, bile rising in his throat at what he was sure came next in his mind, of what was going to happen. "Sorry."

"It's fine." Dean assured, thinking of his head no doubt, oblivious to Sam's true meaning. "What's up with you, Sam? Huh?"

"Nothing. Just a headache." Sam lied. He didn't want Dean to know…didn't want him to know what he was becoming. 'What's happening to me?' he thought helplessly, watching the wheels turning in Dean's head. Sam knew he was thinking of the visions he'd had, the ones that were part of the Yellow-Eyed Demon's plans for him. The plans that had fallen through…right? Whatever the answer, Sam didn't want to worry his brother anymore, hated the pained expression he wore. "Not that kind of headache."

Dean seemed fractionally relieved at this news. "You sure you're okay? 'Cause uh, I'm gonna have to cut off your Wheaties supply if you keep this up." He pointed to his head and winced, reminding Sam of the burst of anger that had overtaken him in the mausoleum. Having no explanation for that either, Sam attempted a smile but didn't mask his guilt as he responded, "Yeah, sorry again."

In desperate need of a subject change, the image of himself haunting him already, Sam added, "So it's witness time?"

"I guess so, since this was, well…Yeah. Who's our first witness?" stammered Dean in obvious discomfort. 'Can he see it in me? Can he see the monster?' Sam cleared his throat and attempted to do the same with his mind as he answered Dean's question. They were going to see a journalist who had been there at the time of the murders.

Sam immersed himself in the case to keep his mind from retracing his steps through the 'painless' vision he'd had. He hoped to God it was something else, something that could be prevented. He didn't want to know how it ended, though the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach told him he already did. As he finished the description of the woman they would soon be in the company of, Dean started the Impala, the trees outside Sam's window blurring and becoming formless streaks of color before his tortured eyes.

TBC


End file.
